Regina Dentata

This is the third story in The Erotic Adventures of Chastity Summers. It follows The Abdominal Snowman.

*

Mathers Graff drifted out of a hazy half-consciousness to hear: "You've been bad, Matty, very bad. We can't have that, can we?"

The voice was a soft whisper close to his ear, with the melody of the words intentionally unhurried and stretched out like warm caramel, but lacking the sweetness. Mathers recognized the voice and it terrified him.

He opened his eyes, the right one fluttered open painfully. The flesh around it felt heavy and puffy. Memories from the morning trickled back in fleeting glimpses. Running through the alleys of the Southern Mission District slums. The hulking silhouette of a man with his arm upraised. The blurred arc of a leather blackjack moving through the air toward his head.

Then darkness.

And now? Things weren't dark, but they were dim. Some kind of bag covered his head. Burlap, maybe. It prickled the skin of his ears and the back of his neck, and smelled faintly of grease and kerosene. He wasn't outside either; the cyclic back-and-forth breeze from a fan told him that, and the standard sounds of the city were muted--even the pummeled horns and endless grind of stalled traffic that filled the days sounded distant. He wasn't in a place anyone would ever think to look for him.

Something brushed across the burlap sack that covered his head. It was steely and sharp and slid in a lazy circle along the curve of his cheek. He tried to twist away, but every angle of movement was blocked. His arms were bound behind him, fixed together at the wrists, and secured above the elbows to the back posts of the chair he was trapped in.

"So hurtful," the voice came again. "I thought you cared more for our partnership, Matty, but you had to go and break promises."

"I was going to do right by you--

am

going to do right by you. I promise.

I promise.

"

"Are you, Matty? You're going to make things right?" The voice was colored with a soft hue of ridicule and was as cold as the sharp metal tip that came again, harder and lower this time. It threatened to push through the thin skin between his Adam's apple and the dip between his collarbones. Mathers gulped the kerosene smell of the cheap-made burlap as he felt the blade flick.

The top button of his shirt fell, cut loose, and his collar released. The warm spray of blood he expected didn't come.

"I swear I'll--"

"I don't think you want to make things right, Matty." The blade flicked again and the next shirt button fell to the floor with a leaden

tap

. "I don't think you're able. I've seen the news; I don't think I've ever heard Betsy Chase repeat the words

embezzlement

and

corporate fraud

so many times." Another

flick

, another button fell.

"I'm begging you. Trust me. Please." He began to panic. The Judiciary could clean out what was left of his accounts for restitution and lock him in the deepest white-collar cell in the city.

Her

idea of justice, though, tended to leave scars. His heart pounded and his pulse drummed in his ears. Musty sweat dripped from his scalp and soaked the sack covering his head, and, though he was barely aware of it, another smell, something sweet and dangerous, began to rise in the air.

"I wish I could, darling, but try to see things from my perspective. It's not just about the money you owe me, Matty. You ran, and not very well. Tramping around the most piece-of-shit streets in the city in Ferragamos and Burberry? Were you begging for a throat slitting?" The woman's voice was placidly calm. "I could understand that, it would be an easy escape from the inconvenient spot you've put yourself in. But I need to know if you told anyone about our arrangement. I know you, Matty. You would sell me out in a heartbeat if you thought you could negotiate a day off your sentence with the Judiciary."

A hand touched Mathers' now-bared chest and slender fingers traced up to his shoulders. The burlap sack lifted away, and after a brief moment of bright-light blindness, his eyes adjusted. The woman he had once--

once

, because it was clear their arrangement had come to an abrupt end--partnered with to make an ill-gotten fortune came in to focus.

"I would never tell. Regina,

please believe me.

"

"

Shh

," Regina said as she stood straight and let her silk robe slide from her shoulders and drift to the floor. "Just breath, Matty. Just breath deep and let Momma Regina take care of you."

They had met--talked--conspired--many times over the past months, but Mathers had never seen her unclothed, and now he desperately wanted to turn away from the wilted, not-quite-grandmotherly body and the scars that spread across the loose expanse of wrinkled nakedness.

He wanted to turn away, but some deep, primitive curiosity wouldn't allow it. Something unseen and almost magnetic held him.

Free of the petroleum-stink of the sack, Mathers realized that the irresistible scent of cherries and butterscotch was thick in the air. How had he not noticed before? How had he... All of the

hows

died mid-thought as the world around him fell away and left only Regina, naked except for stiletto heels, who stepped away from the ripple of powder blue fabric at her feet and casually moved to straddle his lap.

He tried to protest, to pull away before he completely lost himself--he strained against the ropes that bound his wrists and arms. The wooden joints let out a weak groan but held. He held his breath, knowing it was useless. Each honeyed breath he had taken since waking had moved him closer to a tipping point, after which there was no return.

"You want me," she whispered as she leaned into him and pressed her breasts against his bare chest. "Tell me you want me, Mathers." She simultaneously covered the side of his neck with kisses and unzipped his pants.

"

Regina, please

," he said in words whispered like a prayer. He wasn't sure if it was a plea for her to stop or to continue.

She slid her hand along his white briefs and squeezed his swelling meat. "There's my big boy"

Mathers couldn't help but release a soft moan as Regina's fingers climbed the length of his shaft, tickling the underside from the base to the thick tip. When she reached the waistband of his underwear, she dragged it down and let his cock leap free.

"How many of my girls have you enjoyed?" Regina asked as she traced a dagger of a fingernail through the glistening precum that was gathering in the fold of his foreskin. "No--

shh

, it doesn't matter. They're all special, but none are like me."

Regina shifted on his lap and Mathers felt the moist heat of her pussy press against his balls. Her closeness. The perfumed air surrounding him. He couldn't hang on any longer. He parted his lips and took in a deep breath that withered his last bit of self-control. The rush of succubus pheromones lit his senses on fire and colored his world a lusty scarlet. He strained, again, against his bindings--not to escape, not to run for the door, but to caress and explore every part of Regina before taking her as his own. His voice came in a low growl, "I want you. I want in you--I

need

in you

now

." He pitched forward and met her lips in a rough one-sided kiss. He caught her lower lip between his teeth gave it a feral nip.

Regina grabbed his jaw and forced him back. Mathers tried again, but Regina's grip held.

"I can bite, too, Matty." Regina said as her mouth lifted into an unkind smile.

Something in her tone, in the way she held his gaze as she cleared the drop of ruby blood with an indifferent touch with the tongue, would have concerned Mathers if his higher mind hadn't been charred to ashes by a cherry and butterscotch wildfire. The only thing left to swirl in his skull was the hindbrain need to ram and fuck and ravish.

Regina rose and poised herself above Mathers' cock. She swayed and brushed her labial lips against the tip of his exposed glans.

"Do it," he said.

Regina spread herself open with two fingers and lowered herself onto Mathers' substantial cock.

"That's it. That's it. That's it," he moaned as that warm velvet feel engulfed the apple-shaped head. He immediately tried to thrust deeper, but the ropes around his legs and arms dug tight. He needed to get as deep into her as possible, but she wouldn't permit it yet.

"More," he moaned, and Regina took in more. The tight, silky resistance he felt sent him to heaven. "All of it. Take all of it."

With a roll of the hip, Regina yielded the rest of her depths to him. Each slow back-and-forth twist of her hips both fed and deepened the hunger that consumed him. The creamy flesh of Regina's vagina squeezed in a way Mathers had never experienced--like a ring of muscle undulated and flowed, like Regina's insides rearranged themselves in a way to please him in a way he had never experienced. His cock swelled and his balls tightened.

He was going to cum.

Another sensation came before he could: something sharp slid sharklike through the silken sensation of sex. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, at first; a scratch and tickle along the sides of his sensitive cock. Confusion bled into an alarm that brought him minimally back to his senses. Had she brought back the knife she wielded earlier.

His eyes fell to where they were joined. His entire shaft was submerged to the base in Regina's pussy, so it couldn't be a knife.

His eyes quickly rose to meet Regina's.

That scornful smile had returned to Regina's lips and that strange muscle deep inside her shifted. The sharp tickling points tightened and became barbs that gripped tight.

"All of it, Mathers," she said, repeating his words. "I'm going to take all of it."

Regina leaned back, almost elated, and let out an exaggerated moan. She squeezed her legs around Mathers hips.

Some internal mechanism mirrored the motion, and Mathers screamed with the events that followed. Punctures. Slashes. Tearing. The sensation of losing an essential part of himself. And, finally, the realization that the final cumshot of his life had been replaced by the warm spurt of arterial blood.

*

Regina sank into the relaxing heat of a steaming, bubbly porcelain-enameled tub. "Thank you for having this ready, Mary, I overworked myself," Regina chuckled as she massaged her left hip beneath the water. The joint ached more days than not, and she knew it was headed toward a replacement or implant. A surgeon to do it, though... It wasn't like she could sweep into any surgical suite to have it done. She made a mental note to check the records to see if any able surgeons had partaken of her girls' services. Until then, the heat from a hot soak and ibuprofen would have to do.

A tiny alarm tweeted. "TV, Mary. The usual channel."

The girl lifted a remote control and aimed it at the television that took up most of the high half of the bathroom wall. The screen lit to the logo for Betsy Chase's show spinning off the screen to reveal the newscaster's face.

"Welcome, honored viewers. This is Betsy Chase live at the

closed gates

of the University of New San Francisco, where I have been met with locked doors and animosity." The cameraman panned back to show Betsy standing in front of the double glass doors that led to the university's administration building. The wide shot caught a student pushing open one of the doors to enter before glancing over his shoulder to give a puzzled look at Betsy and the cameraman. Betsy hurriedly moved toward the camera to block the view of the slowly closing door.

"My friends," Betsy continued on. "We have just learned that Miss Chastity Summers--the only person cured of the

affliction

that so many of us share--the one woman who

refuses

to give us any information about the remedy that allows her to

flaunt

herself in the streets, while the rest of us must hide for our own protection." The screen flashed to a prerecorded cut in of Chastity in a loose sundress walking down a summer day street. "If only I--if we, my fellow stricken sisters--had the luxury of enjoying a summer day like this." Betsy wiped at the corner of her eye, where a tear may or may not have been. "What is she doing here at the university? Is she returning to the normal life that the rest of us want? Is she--and I strongly doubt this despite reports from a confidential informant on the inside--working with a university research team to monetize the cure she has been gifted with and has so far refused to share? I

will

let you know, friends. I will not give up!"

A sense of unease rose in Regina's chest and bobbled between hear breasts. "Get me out. Now." She looked up from the tub at Mary and motioned for help up. She needed to think. A cure? A fucking

cure

! She couldn't allow it. A cure just would not work for her business plan. She liked the world as it was, and she was

not

going to let it change.

*

"I know it's an unexpected change," Chastity said as she closed the classroom door and walked down the carpeted incline to the front of the lecture hall. "But we're going to do everything we can to make the transition as easy for you as possible. Does anyone have questions before we start?"

Almost every hand rose, and Chastity regretted the offer as soon as she said it. It had only been two weeks since two-thirds of New San Francisco University's School of Cryptid Studies went on the run after a secret, botched caper in Antarctica. The school and student message boards were full of speculation and conspiracy theories about the missing faculty. It hadn't helped that Charles McMurtey, Director of the Deangstrom Research Institute, used the most exasperating propaganda machine in New San Francisco, Betsy Chase, to whitewash his involvement.

Will the syllabus change?

No.

Is our test still scheduled for next week?

Let's put that off until the following week.

The internet says snowmen sacrificed the,

uh

, former faculty to some volcano god and the rest is a cover story.

The university already addressed the rumors about the missing faculty, and I believe the investigation will show the yeti are mostly hospitable.

Chastity had to choose her words carefully, as McMurtey had not, for some unknown reason, broadcast her involvement.

After all of the relevant--and a few speculative, and even more repetitive--questions were answered, a young man in the center of the second row spoke up. His arms were crossed tight across his chest, and it was clear from the sullen animosity in his eyes that he had a major chip on his shoulder.

"You're one of them, aren't you." It was more of an accusation than a question.

A few students whispered in the back.

"A cryptozoologist? Yes," Chastity said, refusing to accept the poorly laid out bait.

"You know what I mean. You're one of those women. It's all over the news. I don't think I feel safe in a room with you."

Another student shouted out, "You're an asshole, Bradley, shut it up."

"I mean, I've got rights here. I pay to be here," Bradley said, turning in his seat, as if he could rally more support from the a few hushed whispers if he made eye contact.

When no one else spoke up for him, he turned back to Chastity.

"There are laws, right? Like Jelly Bean over there--she's one too, and has to take the class virtually. If she's not allowed to be here, why are you?"

Chastity turned her head to follow the

over there

flick of Bradley's hand to a back corner of the room, where a university-issued tele-presence android sat alone. It was so generically humanoid that nothing in its tidy lines and vaguely anthropomorphic cures implied a gender. The only thing that was distinctly female was the image projected on the screen that covered the front half of the android's head: soft and slightly staticky green eyes framed by a cherubic face and wispy bangs so blond they were almost white. Jelly Bean--or, Jillian Bennett, a recent addition according to the class roster--stared back through some distant webcam.

Chastity walked along the front row of seats in the hall, stopping when she was directly in front of the little jackass.

"Bradley, is it?"

He nodded, straightening in his seat, obviously uneasy at her approach. Chastity sized him up quickly. Obviously, the type who always got his way. Uber-rich parents, probably. He looked old enough to have graduated from the university, so he was likely some dilettante who cycled through a different degree program each semester, just to avoid the real world and run through as much of mommy and daddy's money as he could.

"So, Bradley, let me ease you mind, because it would be so disrespectful of me to make you feel so unsafe that you piss your seat every time I ask you a question in class--the cleaning robots might take offense, and I would hate to be a bother to them."

Blotchy red spots appeared on Bradley's cheeks as laughter came from the class, but his grim little lips stayed silent.

"Women infected with the VN1R1 retrovirus don't segregate themselves from the general public for your safety. It's for their--our...

our

safety. Men who smell the altered pheromones become monsters, so some women choose to go to the resettlement camps. Others who want to keep a semblance of the life they had before the infection use pheromone inhibitors and carbon nanomesh clothing to absorb any trace that is left in the sweat glands. It's not a perfect life, but it can be marginally manageable as long as you accept that anytime you go outside you might be grabbed from behind and gang raped in the street while the proper people of the city sneer and turn their heads the other away and blame you for having the audacity to step outside."

"But you aren't doing either," another voice broke in from the back of the room. It was Jelly Bean. "You were cured. Betsy Chase says you have a cure."

"She's wrong, Jillian. She's just using me as her latest ratings booster. I'm sorry, but I don't have what you're looking for."

"But something did happen to you--you are different now. And what you said is wrong. I didn't choose to go to a resettlement camp; I didn't have a choice. My family couldn't afford the medicine... I... I have brothers... My parents had to send me away." Her voice was cracked and tearful. "It's just... if you have a way to help us, please... just help us."

A hand appeared on the screen just before it went black--before Jillian disconnected her link to her android fill-in. The faint afterimage of the young woman wiping away tears faded from the screen in less than a second.

The image would stay with Chastity longer.

Chastity felt a swell of hard angst rise and lodge in her throat. She had expected this--had known this scenario would play out in some way. She knew it as soon as she signed the contract for this unexpected job offer. It had been so easy when she had been isolated, when she lived life at a distance locked away in her apartment for most of her infected days. Betsy Chase, who had built her B-List fame on being infected with the succubus virus, was easy to ignore, but the innocents like Jillian--that was much harder.

"I... let's stop with the Q&A for now," Chastity said. The tremble in her voice only added to the collective discomfort in the room. "Let's get back on track. Today's discussion is on the similarities between the Icelandic Lagarfljót Worm and the Mongolian Death Worm, and how genetic markers were used to estimate the time period when their evolutionary paths branched off from their last common ancestor."

*

"I didn't know what to say, Professor." Chastity fell back into the plush-but-tacky, pink rococo chair and stared at her friend, Chauncey Adams, who seemed out of place behind the polished grandeur of the desk that had, until recently, belonged to Pauline Eastburn.